by JG Faherty
The woman’s lips tightened and she exhaled slowly. My nose wrinkled as I caught a hint of foul breath, which brought to mind festering sores and gangrenous flesh. That, in turn, led to images of the corpses rising in the morgue and from there to the memories of my father, wrist deep in my mother’s body, a dead man’s organs in his hands.
Melancholy threatened to overwhelm me and I forced my attention back to Flannery, who was already losing patience with the woman’s silence. He leaned down and placed both hands on the woman’s desk, using his imposing presence to full effect.
“Ma’am, I shan’t ask again. Tell the professor we are here and need to speak to him on a most urgent matter.”
Another sigh, and this time the sickness emanating from her lungs forced me back a step. I gripped the heavy satchel holding the recovered book to my chest, half tempted to lift it up as a shield against the offensive odor. Even Flannery wrinkled his nose and turned his head.
Dull gray eyes stared at us from within dark caverns created by her overhanging brow and sharp cheekbones. A tiny hint of a smile twitched the corners of her colorless lips. It did nothing to improve her cheerless nature.
“Well, then, you’re welcome to wait. I hope it’s not too urgent, though. The professor isn’t here at the moment.” She turned back to her files. I glanced around the room. Other than her desk and a small wastebasket, it contained no other furniture and just one other door, which I assumed led to the professor’s private office. If we waited, we’d be expected to stand.
“When in blazes do you expect him back?” Flannery’s face had gone a deep red, a sure sign he was about to lose his temper. Had it been anyone other than a professional woman sitting across from him he’d like as not already have baton in hand.
“Oh, not for a while, I imagine. He’s in Antarctica.” Her smile widened another fraction of an inch for the joke she’d had at our expense.
“Antarct—? Why in the dickens didn’t you say that from the beginning?” Flannery thumped his hands on the desk.
I stepped forward before the inspector exploded into a tirade. The woman seemed hell-bent on being uncooperative and Flannery’s ire would only make her more so. “Who can we speak to in his stead?”
“Professor Gardiner is the department chairman for the semester.”
“That’s fine. Where can we find him?”
“Through there.” She pointed at the closed door and bent back to her papers.
Flannery’s mouth dropped open but I stopped his undoubtedly vehement retort with a touch to the arm. “Let’s see if Gardiner can help us.”
“Eh. I damn well hope so.”
The inspector rapped twice on the door and opened it without waiting for a response. He took two steps and then came to a stop so fast I would have walked into him had I not been frozen in place as well.
Rather than the studious office I expected, an enormous space spread out before us, so long and wide that at first it seemed impossible, as if we’d been taken by magics and transported to an ancient city.
Statues of black stone stood in long rows, their narrow, elongated faces staring into the distance. Twice my height, they glowered at unseen enemies, their mouths pressed into tight-lipped moues. Behind them, a series of columns and obelisks stood to either side of an archway, with curious figures carved across their glass-like surfaces.
Something moved between two of the columns, a glimpse of a pale figure seen and then gone, and my pulse speeded up.
The demon! He’s here. We have to—
“Good morning. Can I help you?”
The figure emerged again, walking toward us, and my legs went weak with relief. Only a man, dressed in faded khaki pants and shirt. Tall and aged, with short-cropped gray hair so lacking in color it blended together with his sallow face.
“Are you Professor Gardiner?” Flannery strode forward.
“I am.”
The spell broken, everything became clear to me. The vast expanse of the ancient city revealed itself as a huge storage area. The gray, alien sky nothing but a tall ceiling lit by a scattering of electric light bulbs. The statues and pillars stood on a tile floor coated with unswept dust and grime rather than the sands of ages. Archeological tools – picks, hammers, drop cloths, brushes – lay strewn about, alongside camera equipment and drawing tablets.
Gardiner held out a pallid, liver-spotted hand. Unlike Callie or the sullen woman who’d given us such a hard time, he wore no pin on his shirt. For some odd reason, that comforted me. “Owen Gardiner, at your service. And you are?”
“Inspector Patrick Flannery. And this is Henry Gilman. We’re hoping you can help us translate some kind of ancient book Henry found.”
“A book.” The professor’s dark blue, rather rheumy eyes sparked with excitement. “What kind of book? Where did you find it?”
“Near the Innsmouth waterfront,” Flannery answered before I could say anything. “We believe it was dropped by the man responsible for the murders down there.”
“Oh dear. Please, follow me. My desk is in the back.”
“Just what is all this?” Flannery asked, as the professor led us on a winding route through the towering artifacts.
“Professor Angell and his team made an astounding discovery in Antarctica. A previously unknown civilization, possibly older than the Egyptians or Sumerians. He shipped these back and we turned this entire floor into a storage area to study them. I’ve been working on deciphering the writing. An odd mixture of Ugantic cuneiform and proto-Sumerian pictographs the likes of which neither of us has ever seen. If I were twenty years younger, I’d be there with him. Instead, I have to make do with whatever he sends back.”
I glanced at one of the obelisks and a cold dread gnawed at my belly. Mixed among the lines and shapes were vile depictions of hideous creatures. Insects with the faces of men. Crawling things with eyes all over their bodies.
Squid-like beasts with mouths on their tentacles.
I stopped. The repulsive drawings covered all the pillars, winding around from top to bottom. I had the distinct impression they told a story – no, a warning! – that some primitive part of my brain somehow understood. A tale of death and destruction, of evil and hatred.
A shiver ran up my back. These were no mere imaginings carved by primitive people. They were depictions of actual demons, appalling monsters from the depths of hell. I sensed the truth of it in my very soul.
As I continued to stare, the vile depictions came to life on the stone, the etched lines squirming and wriggling. Claws and pincers opened and closed. Mouths snapped. Obscene bodies heaved and humped and swam. Eyes turned toward me, filled with malevolent intelligence. Tentacles reached out to snare unsuspecting victims, eager to rend bodies and limbs. Twisted parodies of human faces grinned madly as beasts mounted each other with suddenly tumescent genitalia. A loathsome odor filled my nose, ripe with corruption and degradation somehow made palpable to the senses.
Henry.
They knew my name! I wanted to scream, to flee, but fear held me firmly in place. A chorus of voices, evil incarnate yet somehow familiar, echoed around me.
Henry.
Not around me. Inside my head! I was going mad, none of this was possible. I had to—
“Henry!”
The grisly display froze at Flannery’s voice. I blinked and the violent scenes were gone, the horrible etchings returned to their original places. All that remained of my vision was a pounding ache in my head and a feeling of nausea in my stomach.
“Stop dawdling, man.” The inspector scowled at me from several yards ahead, where he and Gardiner had stopped. The stench of rotting fish still poisoned my nose, but neither Flannery nor the professor seemed to notice anything amiss.
“Coming.” I barely managed to make myself heard. My lungs seemed devoid of air. I hurried to catch up, keeping my eyes straight ahead, refusing to look at t
he depraved artwork.
“The book. Come on, we haven’t got all day.” Flannery stood by a large wooden desk covered in mounds of papers. To my despair, I saw that many of them contained sketches and rubbings of the very things I hoped to never gaze upon again.
“Here it is.” I drew the tome from his satchel, all the hairs on my arms rising up as I touched it. I placed it on the desk and backed away so that I couldn’t see the awful pictures.
Gardiner’s eyes went wide.
“I don’t believe it.” He opened the book, seemingly unaffected by whatever ability it had to produce revulsion when handled. “When you told me…. I hoped, but I never….”
“Never what?” Flannery’s impatience surfaced again.
“This is the Pnakotica. You’ve found it.”
“The Nakota-what?” A deep frown creased Flannery’s brow.
“The Pnakotica. An ancient book of spells dating back to the earliest days of civilization. Legend has it they were transcribed from gods that visited the Earth. Previously they only existed as a series of scrolls, which disappeared long ago. But Professor Angell learned of this copy a few months ago from a source in Persia. He had it sent here but the very night the ship docked in Innsmouth, the book was stolen. I reported it to the police.” Gardiner frowned at them. “Isn’t that why you’re here?”
“I don’t know anything about a theft. We’re here to find out what the damn book is, and why some lunatic was running around with it.”
“When was it stolen?” I asked.
Gardiner scratched at this chin. “A week ago, perhaps? Five days? What day is it? I’ve been so busy here I’ve rather lost track of time.”
While Gardiner spoke, the cold chill in my belly spread to the rest of my body. Five days. Everything seemed so clear now. Just more of my damned rotten luck. My decision to take a shortcut to the pub had landed me right in the middle of the theft, most likely interrupting the demon-man as he took possession of the book from whatever poor sod he’d paid to steal it. He’d killed the thief to leave no witnesses, and then….
And then I buggered everything and now it wants me dead as well.
The timing wasn’t lost on Flannery, who shot a knowing glance my way before addressing Gardiner again.
“Well, you’ve got your book back. Although I’d be careful, if I were you. Several men have died because of it. However, if you don’t mind, we still need your help. Can you translate it for us?”
One of Gardiner’s bushy eyebrows rose up and he gave a short laugh.
“Translate it for you? It’s yet to be translated for anyone. That’s why Professor Angell sent it to me. He believes the glyphs on the obelisks and the writings in the book are both the work of the Yithians.”
“Yithians?” Flannery looked like he’d swallowed sour milk as he pronounced the word.
“That’s one of a handful of words he managed to decipher before shipping everything here. The word Yith occurs in several places, always in context with the persons who dwelled in the city. Angell believes the obelisks are a dictionary of sorts, but that they also tell the history of the city. As time went on, more of them were added.”
“And the book?”
“The added content should be invaluable in decoding their alphabet.”
I pulled my sweater tighter against the chill sinking farther into my bones the longer I stood in the midst of all that horror. I could think of nothing worse than spending day after day studying the revolting depictions.
“Well, this was a damned waste of time.” Flannery slapped his hat against the desk.
“Professor Gardiner, isn’t there anything you can tell us about the Pnakotica? You said it was a book of spells.”
Flannery shot me a narrow-eyed glare. I wasn’t sure if the inspector’s anger stemmed from the topic of the question or that I had usurped his role by asking a question in the first place.
“Yes, yes, it is.” Gardiner carefully turned several of the brittle pages. “I suppose I’m as acquainted with the history of the Pnakotica as anyone, save Professor Angell. He’s really the one who—”
“Just get on with it, man. We don’t have all day.”
“Ah, of course, Inspector. My apologies. I tend to…never mind. The Pnakotica is indeed a book of spells, more ancient than any others. You’ve heard of the Necronomicon? The Codex of Djer? No? Suffice to say, the Pnakotica predates them all. Rumors of its existence can be found in the writings of most ancient civilizations, such as the Sumerians and the Egyptians of the First Dynasty. It was long believed to have originated in Atlantis, but Professor Angell has a theory—”
“I don’t give a strumpet’s purse about history or ancient civilizations,” Flannery interrupted. “Just tell us why someone would want the blasted thing.”
“Why? Well, really, there’s only one reason.” Gardiner closed the book and placed his hand on the cover. Despite the abhorrent drawings visible on the desk, I found myself leaning closer.
“To bring the dead to life.”
Chapter Twelve
The carriage ride back to Innsmouth was a cold and silent one. Flannery stared straight ahead, an unread newspaper folded on his lap, his pursed lips and narrowed eyes a warning not to speak to him. Which suited me just fine. My thoughts were awhirl from what we’d learned and I spent my time looking out the window at the dismal, gray countryside passing by while I tried to make sense of everything.
“To bring the dead back to life.”
Gardiner’s words sat in my belly like sour cheese. The walking corpses. Was that how the demon had made them? Through dark magics? According to him, the book might have even more sinister ramifications.
“The Pnakotica contains a series of spells that supposedly deal with calling ancient gods back to Earth and for returning life to demons and other abominable creatures. No one is exactly sure, since the book hasn’t been seen in centuries and it’s never been translated into a modern tongue.”
The professor had promised to let us know if he came up with anything that might be useful to us. He also asked us how the theft of the book and the murders were related, but Flannery brushed him off.
“That’s what we’re trying to determine.” With that, he’d turned and exited the storeroom without so much as a good day. I’d muttered a thank-you to Gardiner and hurried to catch up, my mind awhirl.
Demons. Possession. Dead men returning to life. It all seemed so crazy. Yet I’d witnessed it with my own eyes, seen the loathsome things within….
The demon had brought the dead back to life. But for what purpose? To commit murder? There was no shortage of living men in Innsmouth who’d be happy to do that for a few coins. Why go to such trouble?
Flannery apparently had his own theory for that, one he hadn’t shared aloud but that his eyes, his demeanor, had practically shouted as he stared at me, his expression one of distracted ire.
Bring the dead back to life. That’s what your father tried to do.
I heard the words as clear as if the man spoke them. And I couldn’t deny it. Silas Gilman hadn’t used magic, but he’d strived for the same goal, in his own mad way. Bring his wife – my mother – back from the land of the dead.
Organs strewn about. Corpses piled in the corner, their bodies torn open as if by a ravenous beast. My mother’s pale form, wires attached to her neck, the gaping hole in her—
Acid bile rose in my throat and I choked it back, pressed a fist against my mouth to keep from cursing aloud. I squeezed my eyes shut against the coming tears that always accompanied my memory of that night, when I’d walked in on my father’s insane attempt to play God.
“Henry—” My father shooing me out of the room, his hands dripping in blood.
“Henry—” The demon in the alley, right before I pulled the trigger.
“Henry.”
I jumped in my seat an
d turned to find Flannery regarding me with narrowed, angry eyes.
“What?”
“Get your head out of the clouds, man, or you’re apt to lose it. I don’t believe we’ve seen the last of your demon. You don’t have his book anymore, but he doesn’t know that. He’ll be coming for you, sure as night follows day.”
I nodded, well aware I’d made myself a target for the thing the dailies had taken to calling the ‘Fish Street Strangler’ because of where the first body had been found. Every time I looked Flannery’s way, the lurid headlines of his newspaper screamed at me. Fish Street Strangler Strikes Again. Police Baffled.
Flannery lapsed back into silence and stayed that way until we reached my house, which was fine with me. A new fear gripped me, one I dared not bring up in front of the inspector. Not yet. As I stepped out of the carriage, Flannery stopped me.
“I’m keeping an eye on you, Gilman. Mayhap you didn’t commit those murders, but you’re involved in some way. I know it.” The inspector tapped his nose. “I can smell it on you. Truth be told, if your cursed father wasn’t already dead, I’d think him responsible. But I’ve got to figure it’s some other loon who’s decided to do the devil’s work.”
He pointed a stout finger my way.
“Apple and the tree. That’s what I keep thinking. Let’s go,” he called to the driver. The carriage rolled away, leaving me to ponder Flannery’s words and my own fearful musings.
If your father wasn’t already dead.
I unlocked my door. I needed a warmer coat, as I intended to check on Flora, which meant a walk of several blocks.
But first I had a vital errand to run.
* * *
Two hours later, I exited the pay station two dimes poorer but with greater piece of mind. My call to Arkham Sanitarium had been expensive but worth every penny. I’d spoken to a Dr. Morgan, who’d taken over operation of the asylum after the great fire.
“I assure you, your father is quite definitely dead,” he’d told me, after I asked the question that had plagued me since my waking nightmare on the trip home from Miskatonic. Even then, I couldn’t bring myself to believe it.